


When Evening Shadows and the Stars Appear

by OpenEndedDoor



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Band, Autumn, Bob Dylan References, Dorks in Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Halloween, Haunted Houses, M/M, Nostalgia, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, mix CDs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenEndedDoor/pseuds/OpenEndedDoor
Summary: Fake haunted house attractions can't scare Pete. He definitely doesn't need the cute guy he just met to hold his hand the whole way through.My entry for Trick or Pete: part haunted house adventure, part ode to Bob Dylan, with enough fluff to rival your biggest Halloween candy haul
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46
Collections: Trick Or Pete 2020





	When Evening Shadows and the Stars Appear

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Snitches for beta reading. <3
> 
> Thanks to Bob Dylan for everything, including the title of this fic.
> 
> I've aged up Hayley for the purposes of this fic.
> 
> Happy Halloween! Hope you enjoy!

Pete loves Halloween, like, on a level that he thinks most people wouldn’t understand. So it’s really killing his mood when Joe insists on listening to The Stooges instead of the Halloween mix that Pete worked tirelessly over just for this occasion. Sure, it has classics like MJ’s “Thriller” and Stevie’s “Superstition,” but he pulled out all the stops. He put “Mensforth Hill” by The Clash on there because it’s possibly the creepiest song ever made. He put “The Widow” by Mars Volta on there just for Joe, and now Joe is treating him like this.

“It’s not even Halloween yet!” whines Joe. “We have plenty of time to listen to your mix CD.”

“It’s October,” protests Pete, “and we’re on our way to a haunted house. We have to listen to Halloween music. It’s, like, a rule.”

“Halloween is two weeks away. If you start playing that CD now — and I know you will play it incessantly — then it’s gonna get super old before Halloween gets here.”

“Okay,” Pete says, “so we’ll listen to The Stooges for the thousandth time, and I’ll listen to you talk about how much you love Ron Ashton’s messy but proficient guitar playing for the thousandth time, because that doesn’t get old _at all_.”

Joe sighs and pops The Stooges’ Fun House out of the CD player of his beat-up Volvo. He huffs and gestures to the CD player, and Pete grins triumphantly as he sticks his mix CD in.

As the opening riff of “Highway to Hell” plays, Andy pipes up from the backseat. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Shut up,” says Pete. “It gets more obscure, but you gotta have the classics, too.”

They’re halfway through the CD and the sun has just started to set by the time they arrive at the haunted house. It’s located down a long stretch of highway bracketed by vast empty fields and few houses or signs of life, which has Pete feeling giddy. (“What if we get stalked by an axe murderer?” he asks happily along the way. “Andy and I will use you as bait,” says Joe. “You can tell him how great your mix CD is.”)

They pile out of Joe’s car, and Pete stretches his arms above his head as he looks at the house, drinking in the atmosphere of it. 7 Minutes in Hell is supposedly the area’s scariest haunted house attraction, and one of the top 10 scariest in the country according to the Travel Channel. Pete did his research. He's not just going to waste his time on _any_ haunted house attraction. 

The sight of it alone is living up to its name. It looks like a genuine haunted mansion, all whimsical spires and rundown, cobwebbed windows, and it’s _huge_. He might be worried about the possibility of getting lost in it, but instead the idea thrills him, and he can’t wait to laugh relentlessly at Joe and Andy as he watches them get scared shitless. Pete, on the other hand, is a pro at this. It’s a mind-over-matter thing. As you long as you keep it in your head that the people trying to scare you are just dudes dressed in costumes, then you’re golden.

* * *

After piss breaks and buying tickets and queuing for over an hour, they’re finally walking inside, and Pete feels the titillating buzz of adrenaline rushing through him as they step into the darkness of the house’s foyer. They’re ushered in with another group — a tall and frankly gorgeous guy with a nose piercing and a beanie, a small girl in a plaid shirt with her hair dyed bright red, and a short guy in a jean jacket and a camo-print baseball cap. 

They all nod at each other in various states of nervousness, and then a life-sized porcelain doll walks into the room, and Joe and the redheaded girl scream simultaneously.

Pete tries to laugh at them, but instead it comes out as a choking sound. It takes a few seconds for the shock to ebb away and for Pete to realize that this is a woman who’s dressed in an incredibly realistic porcelain doll costume, makeup and everything. Somehow, her eyes even look lifeless. Pete is starting to feel a little less like a pro at this.

The doll opens her mouth and, in a soft near-whisper of a voice, says, “Welcome to 7 Minutes in Hell. Despite the name, this house will take you around half an hour to get through, and it might feel like longer if you’re easily scared.” She pauses and looks pointedly at the redheaded girl, who smiles sheepishly, and then at Joe, who chuckles nervously. The guy in the hat is standing next to Pete, and he inches slightly closer, their shoulders brushing briefly. Pete wonders if this will feel like longer than half an hour to him.

“Flashlights are not allowed,” the doll continues. “Cameras are not allowed. Mobile devices of any kind are not allowed. Food and drinks of any kind are not allowed. Everyone you will encounter is a paid actor, and touching them is not allowed at any point during the house tour.”

“That’s a lot of rules for a place that operates on the premise of terrorizing its customers,” says Andy.

Everyone else in the room looks at him, and Joe gives him a not-so-subtle nudge to the shoulder. The doll stares at him for what feels like a full minute, and then she says, curtly, “You will be the one to watch, I see.” Pete shivers involuntarily, Joe looks visibly distraught, and even Andy looks a little freaked out.

“We hope you enjoy your 7 Minutes in Hell,” says the doll, “and we sincerely hope your stay is not a permanent one, but we make no guarantees.” Then, for the first time, she smiles. It’s a tiny, sinister smile, not at all reassuring.

The doll walks away, the clack of her shoes echoing through the foyer and beyond the doorway at the back of the room, until the six of them are left standing there in tense silence.

“Uh,” says Pete. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know,” says the redheaded girl. “She didn’t give us any directions or anything.”

“Besides a list of rules,” says Andy.

“Yeah,” says Joe, “which you brought the wrath down on us for questioning. Thanks for that.”

“To be fair, it sounds like Andy’s going to be getting most of the wrath,” Pete says. He looks at the others. “Sorry about that, by the way. I’m Pete, and this is Joe and Andy.” He points at each of them in turn.

“I’m Hayley,” says the redheaded girl. “This is Travie and Patrick.” Travie smiles, and Patrick gives a small wave and tilts his head down, looking up timidly from beneath the brim of his cap. It’s really endearing, and Pete is distracted from being enamored by Travie for a minute.

“Okay, so, we have four options,” says Joe. “We can follow the creepy lady through the dark doorway, we can go up the stairs, we can take the left door, or we can —”

Before he has a chance to finish, Patrick lets out a sharp gasp.

“What? What?” Hayley whispers, grabbing Travie’s arm. 

Patrick says, “There’s someone in the corner of the room.” His voice is low and syrupy smooth, and Pete has the fleeting thought that at least he’ll have a soothing voice to listen to while they’re being tortured for half an hour.

“Oh, fuck, there it is!” Joe yelps and tries to hide behind Andy despite being half a foot taller than him. Pete’s eyes dart to each corner of the room, frantically, and he finally sees something crouching in the far right, hidden in the darkness underneath the twisting stairs. He has no fucking idea what it is — some kind of fleshy creature-looking thing — but the whites of its eyes are glistening, and it only vaguely looks like a dude in a costume. Pete is having a really hard time not suspending his disbelief.

Hayley is gripping Travie’s arm and Joe is holding onto the back of Andy’s shirt, so Pete grabs the hand of the only unattached person in the room, which is Patrick, and holds onto him for dear life. Patrick squeezes his hand back tightly, and it hurts a little, but Pete doesn’t care. His heart is beating out of his chest, and right now he would rather have a bruised hand than be eaten alive by whatever is in the corner of the room.

In a flash, the fleshy thing runs full bore toward them, and the room is filled with the echoing sounds of six people shrieking. Patrick pulls Pete toward a door on the right and opens it, shouting, “In here! In here!” to the others, who all run in after them. Andy is the last one in, and he slams the door shut right as the fleshy dude reaches them. Pete gets a glimpse of his gruesome face up close, a giant slashed scar of a thing, and he knows it has to be a mask or an impressive makeup job, but it’s still one of the scariest things he’s ever seen in his life.

They’re all breathing heavily, and Joe is still clutching Andy’s shirt with one hand and his own chest with the other.

“Well, I guess that answers where we’re supposed to go next,” says Travie.

* * *

Around five minutes into the house, they lose Joe. One minute he’s there and the next he just — isn’t. They walk through the house trying to quietly shout his name, which is a hard thing to do, until a girl in pigtails with a bloody face starts following them, shouting along with them — “Joe! Joe! Where are you, Joe?” — and sobbing at intervals. 

They finally find him cowering in a bedroom muttering about a demon that chased him in there — “And you guys just left me, you fuckers!” When they turn around to leave, the pigtailed girl bends over backwards and crawls on all fours out of the room in front of them, _Exorcist_ -style. Pete grabs Patrick's shoulder with his free hand and buries his face into his neck, focusing on the sharp scent of his sweat. Patrick pats his head reassuringly.

***

Around ten minutes into the house, they hear a faint buzzing noise. “What is that?” says Hayley, and by the time Pete realizes it’s a chainsaw, there’s a clown wielding — indeed — a chainsaw, coming from out of nowhere and running them down. They scatter as the clown cackles and waves the shuddering chainsaw around in the air. It probably only lasts a minute, but it feels much longer, and all Pete can think is, _Surely that thing doesn’t actually have a chain on it_. 

After the clown runs off, disappearing into the depths of the mansion, Pete checks to make sure everyone is still there and in one piece. He almost loses it when he sees Joe and Travie gripping each other in a tight hug, one of Travie’s legs fully wrapped around Joe’s waist. Patrick bursts into laughter next to him, and Hayley and Andy join in. Patrick gives Pete’s hand a gentle squeeze, and he feels high with the sickly sweet mixture of fear and elation. 

“I fucking hate clowns, man!” Travie says as he unwraps himself from Joe.

“I fucking hate everything in here,” says Joe.

***

Around fifteen minutes into the house, Hayley is holding both Travie and Joe’s hands. They hear moaning coming from all around them, like a demented chorus, and a group of zombies ( _dudes dressed as zombies_ , Pete reminds himself) surrounds them on all sides. These aren’t _Night of the Living Dead_ zombies, these are _28 Days Later_ zombies, which is to say they’re fucking fast, and Hayley doesn’t see them until they’re right up on her. 

Pete swears he sees what happens next in slow motion. He watches Hayley let go of Joe’s hand and swing her arm, landing a solid right hook directly onto a zombie’s nose. She immediately gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. The haunter’s nose is gushing blood, and Pete thinks it actually improves his costume. 

“Oh, my god!” she yelps. “It was a total accident, I swear! It was, like, an impulse! You scared the shit out of me!” The zombie, clutching his nose, waves his hand at her as if to say it’s alright and shuffles out of the way, looking like he's been thoroughly knocked down to _Night of the Living Dead_ status.

***

Around twenty minutes into the house, Andy is chatting with one of the haunters, a girl with green hair who was fake-sobbing only a few minutes ago. Now she looks like she’s had a considerable mood shift. “I’m vegan too!” he hears her say, happily.

“If she says she’s straight edge,” whispers Pete, “then we might lose Andy forever in this haunted house, but not for the reason you’d think.” Patrick laughs, and Pete lets his voice wash over him like a warm bath.

Pete has not let go of Patrick’s hand the entire time.

* * *

Somewhere in the last five minutes, they’ve lost the others. There was a commotion involving a whole gaggle of clowns that chased them for a while, effectively herding Pete and Patrick away from the rest of the group.

Pete has grown so accustomed to the antics of the haunters at this point that he isn’t feeling so scared anymore. Instead, there’s a different kind of sensation twisting in his stomach as he walks hand-in-hand with this boy with the soothing voice and the music pins attached to his hipster jacket.

“You’re a Bob Dylan fan?” Pete asks, looking at one of the pins.

“Who isn’t a Bob Dylan fan?” Patrick responds, and Pete wants to hold onto this boy’s hand for the rest of the night and pick his brain and sing “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” to him, even though he can’t sing. Maybe he can play it on bass for him?

“I, uh, made this mix CD,” he says, “for Halloween. We were listening to it on the way here.”

Patrick nods and looks at Pete like he’s waiting for him to continue. But the problem is Pete doesn’t know where he was going with that. He’s usually so good with words. He’s an English major who spends half of his free time writing depressing poetry, but this boy makes him feel like he’s trying to speak in 13/16 time signature or something. He feels way out of his depth.

“Does it have ‘Thriller’ on it?” Patrick asks.

“Of course it has ‘Thriller’ on it. What do you take me for? But it also has stuff like ‘Scarecrow’ by Beck and ‘Halloween Parade’ by Lou Reed, which I feel are overlooked on your standard Halloween mixes.”

“Highly overlooked,” Patrick says, nodding. “‘Halloween Parade’ is a little sad, though.”

“Yeah, but it’s an important song,” says Pete. “I want people to hear it.”

Patrick nods again. “I get that.”

“Hey, if we ever make it out of here,” Pete laughs, “do you and your friends want to go get pizza with us?”

“I’ll have to check with them, but I could definitely go for some pizza right now. I mean, don’t tell anyone this, but when the zombies in that last room were snacking on those intestines, my stomach started growling. Just, like, the idea of eating right now, you know?”

Pete is laughing before Patrick finishes talking, and Patrick starts laughing with him, and then the creepy fleshy man from the foyer starts laughing with them, and Patrick freaks the fuck out.

Pete is a little surprised because Patrick has been impressively composed until this moment, but his body jerks so hard that Pete is worried he hurt something, and then he runs, dragging Pete along with him. Pete has no idea where they’re going, and he doesn’t think Patrick does either, but they run and they run until, somehow, they make it to the stairs and then the foyer and then they’re running outside into the night and back into the embrace of civilization, where people are milling about and lined up to go inside.

They’re both laughing breathlessly. “Fuckin’ hate that dude,” says Patrick. “Just a big...flesh... _thing_.”

“A dick monster!” Pete howls, and Patrick laughs harder.

“Oh, god, he does look like a giant dick! I’m definitely not afraid of dicks, though.”

They both pause, looking at each other. Patrick drops Pete’s hand, and he suddenly feels bereft, like a ship without an anchor. He misses the warmth of it, misses the connection.

Patrick laughs a little, then looks down at his feet and fidgets. “I wonder if the others have made it out yet.”

Right on cue, Andy, Joe, Travie, and Hayley spill out of the front door. They’re laughing and clutching at each other, high on the same adrenaline rush that Pete and Patrick are currently coming down from. The green-haired girl intercepts Andy, and they stop to talk. Pete guesses Andy is probably going to be a fan of haunted houses from now on. Of course, glancing at Patrick, he thinks he might be a bigger fan of them now himself.

“That was awesome!” Joe shouts, grabbing Pete’s shoulders and giving him a shake.

“The fuck are you talking about, Trohman? You were so scared I thought I was gonna have to carry you through the place at one point.”

“Yeah, but it was amazing! I love being scared! I want to be scared more!”

Pete rolls his eyes then looks at Hayley and Travie. “Hey, do you guys want to get pizza with us? Patrick already said he’s down.”

Hayley and Travie look at each other and shrug. “Sounds good,” says Travie.

“I just realized I’m starving,” says Hayley.

“You guys know where Lou’s pizza parlor is?” asks Joe.

“Hell yes,” says Travie.

“Alright, we’ll meet you there,” nods Joe, and he walks off to retrieve Andy.

Hayley waves at Pete, and she and Travie walk away toward the rows of cars, leaving Patrick standing with Pete.

“Thanks for staying with me in there,” says Pete, nodding toward the mansion. “I would have been totally lost without you.”

Patrick actually honest-to-god shuffles his feet, and seriously, how is everything he does so damn endearing? “It’s no problem. You should tell me more about that mix CD sometime.”

Pete feels warmth spread through his body. “I can burn you a copy!” He reaches into the inside of his jacket and pulls out the pen and tiny notebook he keeps stored in the hidden pocket. You never know when inspiration is going to strike, or when you’re going to have the opportunity to get a cute guy’s number.

He opens the notebook to a blank page and writes his number on it. He adds a little drawing of a bat and then rips out the page and hands it to Patrick along with the notebook and pen. “Here, write your number in there,” he says and, as an afterthought, adds, “and your favorite Bob Dylan song.” 

Patrick grins and scribbles in the notebook. When Pete takes it back from him, their hands brush for a brief moment and Pete feels that warmth again. He’s beginning to associate Patrick with all things warm. He’s all soft blankets and rich coffee and crackling campfires and breath on skin.

“See you in a bit?” Patrick asks.

“Can’t wait,” says Pete.

***

During pizza, they relive the entire experience, laughing at each other and themselves. Pete discovers that Patrick, Travie, and Hayley are all music majors. Patrick apparently plays like 10 different instruments and, according to Hayley and Travie, is an incredible singer with “a vibrato to die for.”

Pete actually sleeps that night, for once. He attributes it partially to a post-adrenaline crash and partially to the warmth of Patrick’s hand on his, which has lingered on his skin and in his mind. He hasn’t stopped thinking about how Patrick's vibrato would sound.

* * *

Saturday dawns, and Pete feels rested and almost content. Maybe it’s the season, maybe it’s the boy. Maybe it’s both. He picks up his phone and sees two messages from Joe and one from Andy. He replies to them both and then thinks about finding his notebook with Patrick’s number and texting him. His brain starts trying to play in 13/16 time again, so he gives up on the idea of trying to compose a text and rolls out of bed. He takes care of his morning wood in the shower, his thoughts slipping to how Patrick’s hand would feel on other parts of his body.

After eating a quick breakfast, he slides a blank CD into his computer and starts burning the Halloween mix for Patrick. Then he remembers the favorite Bob Dylan song question, and he scrambles up from his desk to find his jacket from last night. He pulls out the tiny notebook, opens it, and sees Patrick’s number and then, below it, written:

_Impossible to choose, but right now contextually, “Make You Feel My Love”_

His heart is pounding. He stumbles over to his phone and taps Patrick’s number in his phone, then types _contextually?_ and hits send.

He sits at his computer, watching the progress bar inch forward on the screen as the CD burns, and tries not to freak out. A few minutes later, his phone chimes.

_Yes, meaning in relation to the current circumstances. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You’re the English major._

Pete types back _you must really have a thing for haunted houses_

_I think I really have a thing for you._

Pete takes a deep breath, possibly the deepest breath he’s taken in his life, and stares at the words on his phone screen. He wonders briefly if this is moving too fast, but then he remembers that he’s Pete Wentz and he jumps into everything heart first. Then he thinks briefly that “Make You Feel My Love” is a pretty cheesy choice, all things considered, but then he remembers that he’s Pete Wentz and he loves cheese. He could write a dissertation on cheese. Patrick could feed him cheese from a platter and it wouldn’t be cheesy enough for him.

He lets his fingers do the thinking and types _want to come over? by the time you get here your halloween mix will be ready._

_Text me your address and I’m on my way._

* * *

When Pete opens the door, Patrick is wearing the same jean jacket from the night before, music pins intact. He’s wearing a black hat this time, though, and his lips are a bright red from the October chill. They almost look stained, and he wants to try to kiss the color off, see if it tastes as good as berries or apples.

“Hey,” says Patrick.

“Hey,” Pete echoes, gesturing for Patrick to come in. “Don’t mind the mess. I’ll blame it on Joe because he’s not here right now.”

“Ah, yes, part of the roommate agreement,” Patrick says. “The messy roommate is whichever one isn’t home at the moment.”

He watches Patrick remove his jacket and scarf and then look around for a place to put them.

“Oh,” Pete says, moving forward quickly. “I’ll just take those.” And he’s close to Patrick, and his hands are brushing Patrick’s hands, and he’s thinking warm thoughts again.

He realizes he doesn’t really know what to do with Patrick’s jacket and scarf either, so he gingerly deposits them on the back of the couch, then laughs a little and says, “My room’s this way. I’ve got your CD in here.”

Patrick follows him to his room as he keeps talking. “I was thinking we could listen to it if you want, or we could play some music, or do both. I want to hear that voice of yours.” Pete laughs and turns around, and Patrick is _right there_. He’s moved close to Pete, and his head is tilted down again, and he’s looking at him from beneath the brim of his hat, just like he was when they met yesterday, and Pete is having a really hard time resisting that look and those lips.

He doesn’t have to, though, because Patrick is kissing him before he can think. Patrick makes a small noise, a pleading whimper, and Pete responds like a ship anchoring to shore. He presses his body against Patrick’s and wraps his arms around his waist and kisses back, deeply and hungrily. He trails his fingers up Patrick’s spine and through the hair at the nape of his neck. He feels Patrick’s tongue run along the crease of his lips, and he opens his mouth, ready to drink him in like morning coffee.

Instead, Pete forces himself to stop and pulls back breathlessly. “Is this too fast?” he asks.

“I kind of came on pretty strong with the whole ‘Make You Feel My Love’ thing, so I’m definitely okay with this being fast.”

“I really liked the ‘Make You Feel My Love’ thing.” Pete says.

“I thought you might, since you invited me over.” Patrick smirks, and then he gets down on his knees. It takes Pete’s brain a second to catch up because he can’t believe this is how things have progressed, that just a little while ago he was jerking off to the thought of this and now it’s actually happening.

Patrick is looking up at Pete expectantly, his bright blue eyes boring into Pete's soul. Pete reaches down and cups Patrick’s cheek, running his thumb along his thick bottom lip, and Patrick sucks it into his mouth playfully. Pete lets out a small groan, and Patrick undoes Pete's jeans, reaches into his underwear, and pulls out his solid, leaking cock. He runs his tongue slowly along the underside of Pete’s cock, base to tip, catching the head of it with his lower lip, and Pete moans, low and desperate. 

Patrick sucks him in, his wind-kissed red mouth stretched wide, and he works Pete with unbelievable deftness, taking him all the way in and sucking him down like he’s indulging, cleverly licking over every inch of his cock, and Pete is sure he's never felt this way before, like someone wants him this much, like he's a treat for someone.

Pete watches him, this beautiful boy who held his hand for a night and kept him safe and warm and told him how he felt through a Bob Dylan song, and he thinks there’s no way it can already be love but there's no way it can't at the same time. Patrick came into his life and destroyed any notion of impossibility.

And then Patrick hums, and _oh god_ , he’s not going to last long. “Patrick, I’m —"

“Mm,” Patrick hums again, and he blinks up at Pete. “Mm-hmm.” And Pete comes with a desperate moan, spilling into Patrick's mouth. Patrick swallows it down and slows his rhythm, riding through the aftershocks with Pete. Then he pulls off and sits back on his heels, looking up at him.

“Fuck, Patrick,” Pete says. “How are you so good at that?”

Patrick shrugs. “It’s easy when it's you.” 

Pete laughs. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” He lifts Patrick up and maneuvers him to the bed. Patrick lies back, and Pete gets on his knees on the floor. He looks at Patrick, lying on his bed, his cheeks beautifully flushed and his mouth still slick with spit, and he wants to give him the entire world, so he leans down and he tries.

* * *

They’re lying on Pete’s bed with their legs entwined, listening to his Halloween mix, and they’ve gotten all the way to “Castin’ My Spell” by Johnny Otis when Patrick says, “Why do you love Halloween so much?”

Pete thinks for a minute before saying, “There’s something magical about it. You get to let your guard down and be creative and just have fun. And you get to pretend to be scared so that cute boys will hold your hand in a haunted house.”

“You were _not_ pretending to be scared. You were actually _very_ scared. You said yourself you would have been lost without me.”

“Maybe,” says Pete, “but at least I didn’t run away from a giant dick.”

“Oh, my god,” says Patrick. “Freud would have a fucking field day with you.”

Pete is shaking with laughter. He pulls Patrick closer and says, softly, into his ear, “You know what my favorite Bob Dylan song is right now contextually?”

“What’s that?”

“‘If You Gotta Go, Go Now’ —"

Patrick laughs and pushes Pete away.

“‘Or Else You Got to Stay All Night,’” Pete finishes.

“Is this your way of asking me to stay the night?” Patrick asks.

“Only if you want it to be,” says Pete.

“Let’s see how it goes,” says Patrick, and he moves closer to Pete again and kisses him, soft and sweet. “But I like the idea.” 


End file.
